


You can’t have peace (without a war)

by justbygrace



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Dark!Rose, F/M, Role Reversal, Swearing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 15:43:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13274643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justbygrace/pseuds/justbygrace
Summary: Set in the ‘Person of Interest’ Universe. Okay, I’m serious about dark!Rose. I was sort of experimenting with a role reversal with this one...





	You can’t have peace (without a war)

If she thought about it she could almost remember who she used to be back before she lost everything, before she was recruited, before the names of everyone she had killed ran on a constant loop through her mind. She usually tried not to think about it. She was out now, out but not free, desperate for a chance at anonymity in a city where no one gave a shit about their neighbor. She walked the streets trying to forget - her only friend a bottle of vodka and the knowledge of the best ways to kill - until the day she got caught, got caught because some jerk on the train was a stuck-up prick on Daddy's money and she hated his breed. When she was done there wasn't much left but blood and broken bones.

Police custody was nothing compared to the endless hours of torture she'd endured at the hands of governments in countries no one knew existed, and the vacant smile she graced the D.I. with was going a long ways towards laying the basis for an insanity plea, an irony she would have actually laughed about if that was something she still knew how to do. She escaped easily - really the constraints they had her in were laughable - only to discover she'd been helped by some playboy billionaire who was on a mission to save the whole world. She was interested despite herself, partly because he'd saved her life and partly because when he asked her name, she'd actually provided one: Rose Tyler - a moniker that was not strictly her own, but would fit the situation. 

Jack Harkness - the smooth-talking rich guy- had a machine of sorts (she was never clear on the details) that helped him to track crime and know if someone was about to be involved in a violent crime - either as the perpetrator or the victim, it was a case by case basis. Frankly, she couldn't care less about the details because it meant she could begin to make amends for the people she had killed by saving a few; it was not enough, but it was a good start. And she was damn good at what she did; she could wreak havoc and break necks and get people to talk with only a needle and her knowledge of human anatomy. Jack didn't always approve of her methods - he thought they shouldn't have to kill to save - but from her point of view, ridding the world of a few more scumbags wasn't going to tip her further into hell than she was already heading. And besides, Jack needed her as much as (if not more than) she needed him - that man was hiding quite a few ghosts of his own.

She met _him_ about six months into the new venture. By then she was well used to the cycle of numbers and protection and schemes and new numbers; there was a comfort to the routine and she found herself actually enjoying it. It was another day, another number left between the pages of a menu after yet another enigmatic conversation with Jack. The name of the new soul was John Smith and at first he seemed average: a cog in a wheel that lived to break the backs of the cogs, a man who punched the time clock precisely, ate an average sandwich exactly at noon, and returned to his flat to watch the evening news and perhaps have a bit of wine. She was half convinced the machine had spit his number out on accident.

And then, out of the blue, he was no longer average. He was at the heart of a plot, an undercover in a mission to overthrow those in a position to abuse authority. She got herself recruited - child's play that - to rub shoulders with him and (yes, Jack) to protect him, of course. She needed to get in there to help, to make sure he was safe, to ensure that his mission went down without him ending up stabbed and buried down by the east river. Up close he was an enigma, something she wasn't used to; she'd spent a lifetime reading people and didn't like not knowing, not understanding. It was obvious he was trained, trained in hand-to-hand, in tactics and maneuvers; it was also obvious that he still believed people were innately good, a belief she had lost years ago.

The mission went down with the hiccups that all of hers seemed to (just once she wanted an "everybody lives" sort of day, but that seemed as unlikely as receiving absolution for her sins) and she distinguished herself in guns and fire and explosions, walking away with the smoke of the still-smoldering ruins behind her. He - this John Smith, this not-so-average man - grabbed her hand, pulled her into an alley, kissed her like a dying man looking for water. And she kissed him back because she wanted to, because she could, because fuck everything, that's why. She gave him five minutes, ten, and then she pushed him away and left, yelling over her shoulder that he needed to forget her, stalking into the night to shut off the device in her ear with Jack's side comments, to walk the city until the new sun broke over the horizon, until she could forget the feeling of another person's hands on her in something other than hatred.

The next time she met Jack for the new number she shut down his attempts to question her, insisting they move to the next case. Jack was a lot of things, but he wasn't stupid and he let it go, giving her the name of an investment banker up to his ears in fraud. It was boring and exactly what she needed to forget that once upon a time she had remembered how to feel. When it was done she got spectacularly drunk and started a bar fight for the sake of it - the sound of noses breaking under her fist, the spray of blood a reminder that her hands were stained in the stuff.

Three cases later, John Smith's number came up again. The temptation to walk out of the basement that held Jack and the machine was almost overwhelming, but she wasn't stupid enough to leave the only thing that had saved her life and so she trailed Smith again, trailed him this time from a distance, staying away for his sake and hers. It didn't take long before she realized he was no longer just a cog in the machine, that he was on a mission, a mission to find her, and he was desperate. It wasn't his past that was going to kill him, it was hers.

She was in a rage, angry that he would demand to know her past, furious that Jack hadn't caught it. Eliminating him wasn't an option she was willing to consider (though on the rare occasions she did sleep, she was woken screaming from nightmares where she did exactly that) and so she did the only thing left. She recruited him. Against Jack's advice, but with his help, she mugged Smith, blindfolded him, and drove him into the country. He was surprisingly calm about the whole thing, staring at her like she was a goddess come to rescue him from certain death - which, she supposed, she was - though the only religion she had was that of destruction.

When she finished explaining about her and Jack and the machine, she was expecting fear, rage, suspicion - what she got was his lips on hers, his hands in her hair, his body straining for hers. He was tentative and demanding, afraid and fearless, and she simply held on for the ride, curious for the first time in her life if there was a destination at the end. She could have - probably should have - shoved him out of the car and driven for her life, but she didn't; instead, she let him take her right there on the edge of the swamp where she had left men to die and somewhere in his lips, fingers, and tongue she found the salvation she had been searching for.

She had long since given up believing in happy endings, but in the dark of the night when the forces of the past threatened to drag her under, he was there, a candle in the dark, guiding her, leading her, loving her. She was never going to be anything but a war-bitten criminal, but he insisted it was better with two (or three - thank you, Jack) and he was good at making her better. He taught her to believe, gave her something to believe in. Sometimes she wanted to remember who she was before, but usually - especially when his hand was in hers, dragging her towards the light - she realized that it was more important to know who she was going to become.


End file.
